On the other side of the Royal Mile, the luxurious furnishings of the Waterloo Hotel only served to torment the man pacing the elegant parlor, smoking one cigarette after another. Henry Standish Wright was at a crossroads. He could no longer bear the weight of guilt he had lived with far too long. It was like a physical presence, pushing him down, choking the breath from his body. Fear and loyalty had prevented him from taking action until now, but as he gazed out the frosted panes of the French windows, he felt only horror. He could no longer stand by and watch passively as one young life after another was sacrificed to a dark and distorted desire.
What did it mean, this wretched life, if one had no power to right what was wrong, no matter the cost? Henry had no illusions about what it would mean to his career if he went to the police. He lit another cigarette with trembling fingers. Inhaling deeply, he savored the harsh tobacco as it slid down his throat, followed by the calming rush of the drug, which both sharpened his reasoning and relaxed his anguished spirit. Until now, the killer had taken the lives of strong young men who were capable of defending themselves—but this! Surely this latest outrage demanded retribution in this life, if not in the next. He could hardly bear to look at the newspaper sprawled upon the coffee table, where he had flung it when he first read the terrible news.
He took a last drag from his cigarette, then stabbed it out in the crystal ashtray, pressing so hard, he nearly burned his fingertips. He took a deep, ragged breath and straightened his spine. He had come to a decision. He wheeled about and strode to the coatrack, grabbing his coat as his hand closed on the front-door handle. When he pulled it toward him, he was astonished to see the man standing before him in the hall.
“How long have you been standing here?” Henry croaked hoarsely; his voice seemed to have deserted him. “Have you been spying on me?”
His tormentor smiled. “Going somewhere?”
“I need to buy cigarettes,” Henry muttered, avoiding eye contact.
“That’s strange,” the man replied, looking over his shoulder at the fresh pack on the coffee table. “You have a newly opened box right there.”
“I need to take some air. Let me pass!” Henry replied tightly, trying to push past him.
His opponent stood his ground, the smile fading. “What’s the rush?” He grasped Henry by the wrist, twisting it behind his back.
Henry ground his teeth as the pain shot up his arm. “Let—me—go,” he rasped, but the other man was stronger, and forced him back into the room.
“I say, you’re not in a very friendly mood,” his adversary said, locking the door behind him. His glance fell upon the newspaper on the coffee table and he frowned. “Dear me, have you been reading the paper? You really should stay away from upsetting news—remember your delicate constitution.”
Henry attempted to light another cigarette, but his hands shook so violently, he dropped it on the floor.
“You don’t look well at all. Are you still having trouble sleeping?”
“I am sleeping quite well.”
“You always were a rotten liar,” his antagonist replied, advancing toward him. “And you really shouldn’t believe everything you read in the paper.”
Henry took a step back. “Keep away from me.”
His visitor smiled, and in that smile all the evil of the world seemed to reside. “Relax. What are you so afraid of?”
“Just keep your distance.”
“I thought that you might react badly to all that lurid newspaper coverage. It appears I was right.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Henry replied, but he knew the look on his face gave him away.
“Pity you never learned to lie well—I could have taught you. I am quite good at it.”
“Very well,” Henry croaked as panic closed off his throat. “Why don’t you teach me?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that now.”
Henry backed away, knocking over a Chinese vase, which tumbled from its perch, shattering on the parquet floor.
“I’m disappointed in you,” his tormentor said, advancing toward him with the measured stride of a tiger stalking its prey.
Henry’s instinct told him to avoid turning his back on his opponent, but he also knew he couldn’t fend him off barehanded. Remembering the steel letter opener in the desk drawer, he spun around, pulled the drawer open, and clawed through its contents frantically.
His fingers clutched the pearl handle just as he felt strong hands closing around his neck.
As his breath deserted him, Henry closed his eyes, letting his body go limp and leaning into his fate, inevitable as it was. The last thing he felt, as the darkness overtook him, was relief—relief that it would all soon be over, and at last he would be able to rest.
CHAPTER SIXTY
As the heavy wooden door of the High Street police station closed behind him, Ian Hamilton stepped from the building to see Derek McNair waiting on the other side of the road, leaning against a tethering post, arms crossed. There were stains on his cheeks where tears had scraped vertical lines through the dirt and grime. Derek’s eyes were swollen and red, and his chin, though firmly clenched, threatened to give way any moment.
“You’ve heard, then,” Ian said.
“Aye,” the boy replied.
“Who told you?”
“It’s in all th’ papers.”
“I’m so sorry. I know Freddie was your mate.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, compressing his lips tightly. “Right.”
“He seemed like a nice boy.”
“Lot nicer ’an me, which is pro’bly why e’s dead.”
“When did you last see him?”
“In the Grassmarket, the day afore he were . . . found.”
“Approximately what time?”
“About ten in th’ morning.”
“Did you see him with anyone suspicious?”
Derek shook his head. “Naw. We was . . .”
“Working the crowd?”
“Don’ know what ya mean.”
“For God’s sake, I’m not going to haul you in for pickpocketing!”
“We was workin’ the crowd, yeah.”
“Then what happened?”
Derek kicked at a stone in the road. “That’s when me an’ Freddie had a fight, and I went off an’ left him there.”
“Anything else you can remember? Was the Grassmarket crowded?”
“Aye. It were market day, an’ there were lots a folks out and about.”
“Very well,” said Ian, heading off down the High Street in the direction of Edinburgh Castle, black and solitary on its slab of rock. Derek fell in beside him, scurrying to keep up with the detective’s long stride. They walked in silence before Ian stopped, in the shadow of St. Giles’, its Gothic arches hovering over them like great stone arms.
“Well?” he said. “Why are you following me?”
“’Cause you obviously need help.”
“Do I?”
“Well, ye need sommit, don’ ye?” the boy cried, releasing a torrent of tears and anger. “Else ye would’ve caught ’im by now—but ye haven’t, ’ave ye?”
“No, we haven’t,” Ian replied. “And since you’re so keen on helping me, I have a question for you.”
“Yeah?”